Dreams
by Katrina Marie Lupin
Summary: Mr. Gold doesn't always dream, but when he does... #RumBelle, up-to-date, some rather terrifying implications. (Because you know I love to run on the Dark Side of Life.)


WARNING: Very dark subject matter ahead. If you can't catch it, kudos to you for being blind as a bat, but my head canons go to dark places. Had to write something about Rumbelle! You know how I am.

xxxx

Mr. Gold didn't dream often. He kept himself busy with his work – there was always rent to collect, bargains to be made, debts to be recovered. Maintenance on things in the shop. Shifty people to keep an eye on. And of course, Regina. She certainly kept herself busy, and it was at times a very occupying chore to keep up with her latest mischief.

He liked the dealings. It was like old times, when he was Rumplestiltskin. The Curse had always kept his mind heady with plots and magick, trying to craft a masterpiece that would let him find his Bae, but... keep the power. It was tricky to compromise, but he couldn't let the power go. It was such a big part of him, now. He couldn't imagine being weak, like he had been. People feared and respected him. He could do as he pleased, without having to answer to _anyone_. Now, they answered to _him_.

...but he did still dream. On a quiet day, when the rent was collected, and no one came to the shop, and nothing looked particularly dusty, and even Regina was too caught up in her Emma troubles to do any damage, he found himself... dreaming. That's what he called it, anyway, because after all, dreams are but memories long since past.

These were dangerous days. These were the days that he looked at his books to see who owed him favours. It was not unheard of for him to approach a young woman with a debt to pay to help him scratch this itch. It was never the same, but it did the job. He could be cruel, and no one would expect any different. He would let out his rage and frustration out on her, and it helped, for a little while. These were the days he made ammendments to contracts, where he made notes as to who had gained his displeasure and distrust lately, and a note to check up on things when he had the inclination. Sometimes he took up the inclination, but rarely...

...Ever so often, once in a while, when he was feeling particularly melancholy, he basked in the dream.

He would find himself back in the cabin, where it was quiet, and no one could hear his desperate tears. He could take an axe and collect firewood, taking his wrath out on the old timber, and usually never had need of doing it in the winters. If he stayed home, things would end up shattered, and sometimes he didn't want to waste the money on a fleeting fit of rage. But every so often... when the weather was bad, and he didn't want to go out into the woods in the storms, and the fire was warm and inviting, he would stay in.

And he would dream.

It started simply enough. He would be there, sitting in one of his chairs. Often fiddling with his cane, rolling it around under a palm. Sometimes he would mutter and curse the fates, other times he would sigh and ask why they wished him such misery. And then... he'd hear a sound. Or he would want to, and he would pretend he did. He would look up and... there she would be. With that shy smile, and a tray set for tea. Tea for two. She'd ramble on about some nonsense pertaining to her chores – perhaps that the stain he got on his purple shirt from coffee the other morning was being tricky coming out. She would even chide him, albeit gently. Always a little wary. At once, that was comfortable – he liked people being afraid of him. Othertimes, he wished her a bit more bold. She'd pester him about getting those roses like he'd promised, or that he hadn't been eating his dinner again. But she'd chide and talk and make the tea – she always took three sugars, and he'd watch her. He'd always get the chipped cup, even if he knew she wouldn't always have done so. She'd make the tea, and hand him his cup and saucer, and he'd take it, feeling as cowed as he could, for once meek under her beautiful smile, her wifely attentions always flattering him. He didn't deserve it, and he knew it, but he enjoyed it.

Here, even. In the humble cabin, or in his mansion of a home, or in the shop, she always spoke to him as if she'd been with him the whole day, keeping his things in prime condition like he'd asked her to. As if he hadn't been the one going to the dry cleaners himself. As if he hadn't been the one to run to the hardware store. As if he hadn't been the one to go to the grocery store, but she had. A perfect maid, a perfect wife. Beautiful, charming, ever-present and at his side.

He dreamed. He dreamed she was still here.

So he had to shake himself as he watched her. Reality... was so much more different. What had been an old dress, just another thing in his shop, was now draped over her shoulders. It was filled by her form, which was beautiful in the simple fact that it was _there_. Her blue eyes were hollow, and it broke his heart. She brushed the tangles and madness from her hair, and it broke his heart. There was no tea, here. Just a lost, lonely girl. And it broke him.

But she was back. She remembered him. And she _loved_ him. He didn't deserve her, and he'd told her as much, but she insisted on staying.

_Don't you see?_ Her smile was blinding. _That's exactly why I must stay_.

The only fool who could get away with such impertinent disobedience. Because, he wanted her to stay. Tea or no tea, he wanted her back. And he never wanted to lose her again.

He'd found himself dreaming all day. He'd retired from the shop early, and come home to the cabin. She'd greeted him with that soft, sad smile, and at first it surprised him. He knew she was here – how could he not? It was as if she was in his bones, he just _knew_ that she was there, on the edge of town, doubtless puttering about or napping in his cabin, and his heart ached to be with her. Even as he ran about town, doing his business, she was ever-present in his thoughts, and he couldn't forget that she was _there_. He fantasised about life, and how it could be, and how he was going to do terrible things to her, and she _must get away_.

But there she was. Brushing tangles and madness from her hair. And it broke his heart.

"Belle?" It was such a beautiful sound, like the instrument, soft and gentle, but ringing through the air, unstoppable.

There was a moment, where she broke herself from whatever spell had her enraptured, and her face turned to him. She was so beautiful... His heart sung out, yearning for her. She smiled, then, and he's sure his heart shattered into a million pieces. "What is it, darling?"

...Why was he 'darling'? She was a fool to love him so. But he would be a greater fool to deny her this time. He was sure his lip was quivering, but he took a shaking hand to... pat his knee. "Come to me, dear."

Why was he sitting in a chair? He should be elsewheres. Somewhere she could sit with him. But she came, a smile on her face, and obediently sat on his knee – she was so warm, and soft, and so... _filling_. Her presence captured all of his attentions, as if she was all that was there. His hands touched her, and hers touched him. As he touched her soft curves, closing his eyes, cursing his foolishness, asking the gods why they saw fit to give him another chance, one of her hands slipped under his lapel, another into his hair. Her fingers set his skin on fire, and when she kissed his temple, he felt a breath escape his lips.

There was a soft chuckle. "Rumplestiltskin," she said, and it sounded like a spell, full of its own lovely power. "What is it, my love?"

_My love_. Why was he her love? "I... I just wanted you closer," he said, knowing it sounded foolish, but not sure how else to say it. But... he could feel so much of his power was gone, now. Before, he could have picked her up and whisked her away, but now, as she was full with her womanhood, and he was an old man, he could feel every ounce of her weighing on his bones. _Oh, what a fool I was_, he thought. Still, his fingers slipped over the inches of her, his head resting on her lips, just trying to wrap himself in the truth, the warm, the comfort of her.

Her kisses were soft, and they made his heart ache. He lifted his face to her, and she kissed him. He kissed back, feeling the cold, weary stone in his chest melting just a little more with every passing second. Before long, skin touched skin, and she let out the softest of sighs, and it made his heart pound in his chest.

And then she did something he wasn't expecting. She slipped off his lap, and made to straddle him. It surprised him, and he honestly blinked. When he looked at her eyes, they looked hollow, and vacant. As if she wasn't there. It confused him... scared him.

He touched a hand to her face. "Belle?"

He saw it, again. As if she were breaking herself from something, and her eyes blinked before returning to their brightest blue. "Hmm?" She smiled. "What is it, dear?"

He... knew that look. That was... a bad look. "Belle... What are you doing?"

She blinked at him, and looked down, to where her hips were very nearly attached to his. Her skirt was at her waist, and he could feel her warmth wetting his pant leg. Her eyes faded away for the breifest of moments, before coming back, and she looked to him, frightened.

"I... I don't know." She slipped off of him, and took two shaking steps back, a hand coming to her head. "It was... I don't know. I-instinct?" The way her teeth chattered, and the way her eyes flashed – he knew that look. He knew it very well, and it made him break as well.

He stood, then, feeling the sobs choking his throat. "Belle, what's happened to you?" His shaking hands came to her face. This was not the Belle he knew. She wouldn't straddle him like a common whore. She had known no man when he knew her, and it was honestly her innocence that had been something of hers he loved. The hollowness in her eyes... He knew that look too well, because it was something...

Her eyes searched his, her mouth hanging open. The horror couldn't escape her lips, and his face contorted.

"Oh, ma Belle..." He wrapped her in a warm embrace. "What did they _do_ to you?" He could only feel horror, and sorrow and pain. Who had taken her? Who had done such things to her?

"I..." Her voice was choked in tears. "I remember... Someone. At that place, where I was..." Her body trembled in his touch, and it almost felt like she was trying to push him away, while gripping his clothes with clawed fingers. "Oh, they did such horrible things to me... And I screamed..."

He broke into tears, then. He knew the rage, the frustration. But he would never, _never_- You should always have a choice. To imagine a thing happening to his precious Belle...

"Oh, Belle, Belle..." But all he could do was hold her tight, and call her name.

He wrapped himself around her and held her tight. Fully clothed, they slept together, side by side, in his bed. He whispered reassurances to her that no one would ever hurt here again – he would keep her safe, and protect her from the other monsters.

Sometimes, Mr. Gold dreamed. But that night, he had nightmares.

xxxx

Leave it to me to find something horrifying to write. I've, as of yesterday, gotten caught up with Once Upon A Time and, understandably, I ADORE Mr. Gold/Rumplestiltskin. By the time I got to "Skin Deep" I about died out of pure joy. Can they squeeze any more of my favourite archetypes into one character? I challenge them to try. But as much as I love the fact that Belle is back, Mr. Gold is not a good man. He is a Snape, a Phantom, a Herron. He is a cruel, monstrous shadow of a man, and while love may be his salvation, it is a dangerous thing. I am excited to see what kind of angst we can look forward to with Belle's return, particularly now that magick is coming back, and he will be cursed once more! I expect him to hurt her, and in my own sadistic way, I will enjoy it.

But one thing I adore is asylums, for the same sick, twisted reason. I think it's perfectly reasonable that now everyone has both of their lives in their heads, and while Belle's wasn't all that bad (comparitively – surprising thing to say, given the nature of the Beast (buh dum ch) ) there is the fact that she spent 28 years in an asylum. I don't know about you, but I do know of some rather terrifying horror stories about asylums. Particularly for a pretty, young girl, who we see is rather obedient and prone to following directions without many questions asked. Mr. Gold fights with his own insecurities, but is surprised when his beloved, innocent Belle does something whoreish. Where did she learn that from, I wonder? It's a horrifying implication, and one in my head canon. Deal with it. (I sincerely hope it would be canon, but considering how light they are in gore on OUAT (considering!) I doubt it. So, I shall of COURSE fill in the gap :D

Side note: I don't want to imply Mr. Gold is a rapist. I kind of did, and I retract. (I remember Mr. Gold giving me trouble the first few times I wrote it, and honestly, he wasn't that satisfied with it when I published it, and yeah, this is why... SORRY! T^T I do not want an angry-at-me Rumpelstiltskin, that leads to bad things.) He has his lines, and that includes saving the lives of children, and keeps dark deeds for bad people, or for the greater good, or if he's covering his own ass. When I mentioned earlier in the passage about young ladies, I don't mean rape. I mean prostitution. Side note, I totes think he's done that sort of 'business' with Red before, but... it's Red. Who hasn't? /again, horrifying headcanons.


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